


Next Contestant

by Saber_Wing



Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: And possibly a cold shower, BAMF Steve Rogers, BAMF Tony Stark, Blood, Blood and Violence, Covert Operation, Drinking, Established Relationship, Humor, Jealous Steve Rogers, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Consensual Groping, Objectification, Possessive Behavior, Protective Steve Rogers, References to Drugs, Romance, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/pseuds/Saber_Wing
Summary: Steve had sorely overestimated his ability to watch random strangers feel up his guy.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 41
Kudos: 462





	Next Contestant

**Author's Note:**

> Please, for the love of whatever gods you believe in, check the tags before you move forward. This one is quite different from my usual content, and has quite a bit of content that could potentially squick people out.
> 
> Also, I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but I actually got the idea when I heard a Nickelback song, of which the title was inspired (if you wanted to unfollow me at this admission, I completely understand). Regardless, hop onto Youtube and look up 'Next Contestant,' and change all the she pronouns to he, if you've a mind, because it very much sets the tone.

“Why does it have to be him?” Steve protested as Natasha finished her pitch. They were all gathered in the ‘war’ room, because S.H.I.E.L.D. was looking for eye candy. Eye candy that was needed in a male gay bar, and therefore, couldn’t be Natasha. “ _I’m_ attractive.”

Clint was the one who replied, pointing a thumb at Tony over his shoulder. “Yeah, but _he’s_ the slut.” 

Tony leered at Clint, grabbing a handful of pretzels from the bowl on the table. “You know it, buttercup.”

Natasha was amused, if the upturned corner of her lip was any indication. “He also knows how to work a crowd. _You_ look like a suit. That’s why we need both of you. We put you at the bar, every criminal not lusting after Tony will have their eye on you. Stark will be free to do the real work and pull their strings, while our agents go in under the radar. And, if he plays his cards right, they won’t be staring at his face long enough to think twice about why it looks familiar.” She shrugged. “You’d be surprised what you can do, with sexy clothes and contact lenses. They won’t know it’s him. And he’ll have a story to tell at the next Stark Industries Christmas party.”

Tony shrugged. He seemed alarmingly blasé about the whole thing. “Sure, why the hell not?”

Steve’s stomach dropped. He stared. “How—” He paused, rubbing a hand over his face. “How are you on board with this? Since when do you come running when S.H.I.E.L.D. wants something?”

Tony bristled, instantly on the defensive. “Oh, I’m sorry. What was that you were saying last week? Wait, _I_ remember! ‘ _Be a team player, Tony. Nick’s done a lot for us, Tony. Would it kill you to help him out every once in a while?’”_

“I meant with, with _tech,_ or logistics and things, not…I don’t know, offering yourself up like a scrap of meat!”

“Somebody’s got a _possessive_ streak _,”_ Clint sing-songed, strolling his way back over to the table. He set mugs of coffee in front of each of them and flopped down into his chair, arm slung over the back of it.

Steve harrumphed under his breath, grinding his teeth. “I do _not.”_ He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring darkly at a spot on the wall.

Tony laughed. He sauntered over to Steve and sunk down onto his lap, threading his arms around his neck. “We go in. Then, while you draw their attention, brooding like you brood best, _I_ work my feminine charms and get some info while Fury’s super spies break into their super _not_ so secret hide-out and take what they want. You’d be there to watch my back. What could go wrong?”

“Don’t say _that.”_ Steve groaned, hiding his face in Tony’s chest. “You always say that, and they _always_ go wrong.”

“Hey.” Tony nudged him under the chin. His gaze was earnest. So much so, it put a lump in Steve’s throat. “If you’re not comfortable with this, I can put a pin in it right now. I can’t be the only slutty gay guy S.H.I.E.L.D. has on their roster. Just say the word.”

“You’re not a _slut_ ,” Steve muttered, sulkily. Tony gave him a lopsided grin, bemused. As if he were the most precious thing on the planet for saying so, even if he _was_ wrong. And all joking aside, Steve could see that he meant it. He’d tell them no. Just because Steve wanted him to.

He knew what it took for Tony Stark to give someone _any_ measure of power over him, let alone the power to _stop_ him from doing anything. Being the one person he would bend for humbled Steve more than he could say.

Tony wanted to do this. Steve could see it in his eyes. He made no effort to hide it. Put all his cards on the table, and just…waited.

Could Steve be that selfish? If Tony thought he could make a difference, who was he to deny him? He never stopped him from flying off on missions as Iron Man. Why should this be any different? And, like he’d said, Steve would be there the whole time, watching his back. Making sure those smarmy lechers didn’t get any ideas.

What was the _worst_ that could happen?

* * *

All operatives were in position.

Tony was taking his role as the eye candy very seriously. His outfit was skintight and left nothing to the imagination. They’d kept his hair dark, but they’d lengthened it enough to spike. Hair extensions. A few caramel highlights.

His jeans hugged his legs, his ass. Those gorgeous thighs, flexing with every step. His shirt was just as tight: jet black, rolled up to the biceps, and unbuttoned at the collar. Enough to give a tantalizing glimpse of what lay beneath. His eyes were deep green – courtesy of S.H.I.E.L.D. and their contact lenses – and he knew how to use them. Striking with precision as deadly as any Widow with a knife.

He looked fantastic, and he knew it. His audience knew it. They were at his mercy.

The wooden countertop cracked under Steve’s grip.

Something dark and primal clawed its way up from deep within his gut. Raged at the bars and chains that bound it. It had awakened from a bottomless, cavernous _void_. Somewhere he hadn’t known existed and wasn’t sure he liked.

One of the men swarming around Tony by the bar leaned into his space. Brushed a stray hair out of his eyes.

Steve had to work so hard to beat back a growl, he nearly swallowed his tongue.

His mic was sensitive enough to pick it up. “ _Down boy,”_ Natasha chimed, sounding far more amused than she had a right to. _“Let him work.”_

If that handsy guy over there touched his fella anywhere below the belt, he was gonna have ten fingers that didn’t _work._

Tony laughed at something Handsy said.

Steve had never wished he could get drunk more in his entire life.

“Rough night?” the bartender asked from Steve’s elbow, following his gaze over to Tony, and shooting him a sympathetic grimace.

Steve barked out a harsh laugh. “You could say that.”

“Bet I can fix it,” the young man sing-songed, grinning from ear to ear. He had purple hair and a nose ring, and Steve had never felt more out of his element. “What’ll you have?”

Handsy plucked a cherry from Tony’s glass and popped it into his own mouth. He cocked his head, shoving it back out between his lips. Waiting for Tony to lean in and ‘take’ it.

Tony – the beautiful bastard, plucked it out of Handsy’s mouth, all right. With his _fingers._

And ate it, stem and all.

Somehow, that revved them up even more.

Another chuckle from his earpiece. Clint, this time.

Steve clenched his jaw so tight, he swore he felt a molar crack.

“What’s the strongest liquor you’ve got?”

The bartender blinked. “Uh…”

Steve sighed. Massaged his temple. “Never mind. Just bring me a bottle.” He hadn’t been drunk since 1943 and it probably wasn’t gonna happen now, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

Eventually, the bartender came back and set a bottle down next to Steve, who snatched whatever it was without preamble, taking a good, long swig that burned his throat.

The bartender – likely never having seen someone drink one-hundred fifty proof alcohol straight from the bottle without so much as a wince, or a chaser – watched on in stunned disbelief. “Might wanna take it easy on that, dude.” He turned away to wait on another customer, muttering under his breath. “Jesus fuck.”

Steve had sorely overestimated his ability to watch random strangers feel up his guy.

 _“Drinking on the job?”_ Clint piped from his com. _“I…I’m so proud of you, dude. Little choked up, not gonna lie.”_

 _“Steve.”_ There was a note of warning in Natasha’s tone. _“You’re too tense. You wanna draw attention, not scare them away.”_

One of the other men in the group – wearing the tightest leather pants Steve thought he’d ever seen – smiled at something Tony said. Rested a hand on his knee.

Steve stared.

There wasn’t enough alcohol on the planet.

 _I can’t do this,_ he lamented. _Why did I think I could do this?_

“Do I look like the kind of guy who’ll take a drink from just anybody?” Tony was saying from the other end of the bar. “How do I know you won’t just roofie me, and save yourself the trouble?”

Handsy slid off his stool. “Aww, come on,” he pouted. “Do _I_ look like I’d do that to you?”

“Maybe.” Tony favored him with a shark-toothed smile. “Don’t think I wanna find out.”

Handsy leaned in close. Caressed his chin with a thumb. “Let me prove you wrong.”

“Hmm…” Tony made a show of mulling it over. “No. No, I don’t think I will.” He slid off his own stool and turned to leave, sauntering out on the dance floor before seeming to think better of it. He looked Handsy up and down, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “Unless there’s, uh…something in it for me?”

“You’ll have _somethin’_ in ya’, in a hot second.” Handsy’s face twisted with something sharp. Ugly. He grabbed Tony’s wrist. Yanked him back toward the bar. “Fuckin’ tease.”

Steve _snarled._

 _“Steve,”_ Natasha warned. _“This is what we want. That’s the kingpin’s brother, don’t—”_

Steve didn’t care if he was the goddamned Queen of England. All _he_ cared about was the greasy dirtbag putting his hands on his fella.

Tony broke the grip easily, but he stood his ground. Favored Handsy with a predatory grin. “Careful, pudding cup.” He spared Steve a glance, a warning in his eyes that was just for the two of them. “I don’t play fair.”

“Dude, come on.” One of Handsy’s friends was warning him off, tugging on his shoulder. “Leave ‘im alone.”

“You been playin’ me all night,” Handsy shook his friend off. He lurched forward quickly enough that it took Tony by surprise. Grabbed him by both ass cheeks and hauled him into his chest. “Least ya’ owe me is a test drive.” One of his hands slid across Tony’s thigh. Gripped his –

Steve was out of his seat and across the room, yanking the son of a bitch off his sweetheart by the collar.

Handsy was flailing, pinwheeling both arms and legs as Steve marched him over to the bar and slammed him up against the hardwood. Somebody screamed.

“Anybody ever teach ya’ not ta’ touch a fella without his consent?” Steve spat, words shaking. Fists trembling in the fabric of the weasel’s shirt.

“Who are _you_ supposed to be?” Handsy was trembling, cowering against the bar. As much as he could with Steve’s fists bunched into his shirt, anyway. “Get your fuckin’ hands off me!”

“Guys, come on.” Handsy’s friend, the one who’d been trying to dissuade him the whole goddamned time – seemed to be the only one with a brain cell between them. He tugged on Leather Pants’s shirt, backing them toward the door. “You ‘member what Vito said. Gotta lay low. We don’t want any trouble.”

“Appreciate the backup, soldier boy, but if I needed a superman to rescue me, I’d have asked.” Tony was hovering behind him, and his tone was wrong. The pet name, impersonal. Part of the act he was trying desperately to salvage, even now. “This one ain’t anything I haven’t dealt with before. I can handle him. The question is: can he handle _me?”_

Steve wasn’t sure if he should be impressed, or just incredibly pissed off that he felt the son of a bitch’s dick harden against his leg. 

Why did Tony have to be so goddamned _good_ at this?

“Geez,” an onlooker chortled, from behind Steve. “All that fuss over one pretty face.”

“He _is_ pretty, though,” another chimed in. “Bet he’d suck a mean dick.”

Later, Steve would look back on this moment, and know he had a problem. An Anger problem, with a capital ‘A.’ He might, after much self-reflection, even feel guilty about what happened next.

 _In_ the moment, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Steve whirled on the guy and decked him.

And if he took Handsy’s head and slammed it into the bar a few times afterward, that was between Steve and his Maker.

Steve let go of Handsy’s shirt, and he scrambled away, blood streaming from his nose. Crawling in a backward slide on the floor before his friends each grabbed an arm and booked it the _hell_ out of there.

People in the background were recording the ‘fight’ and taking pictures. Somebody – a few somebodies, really – were across the room playing beer pong, despite the commotion. The poor, unsuspecting bystander who’d been Steve’s _first_ victim was crying in a puddle of his own blood. And Tony was watching the proceedings with his arms raised and his mouth wide open, cycling between pissed off and incredibly aroused, and unable to settle on either.

“Hey!” someone shouted. “Is that Captain America?”

Natasha sighed.

“ _O-kay.”_ Tony blew a breath between his lips. “That could have gone better. You, uh…want us to stick around? ‘Cause you know, I think I can still—”

_“Just go.”_

* * *

“And that, my friends, is how Captain America started a bar fight!” Clint crowed gleefully from the front of the conference table. “Any questions?” He seemed positively thrilled. Over the moon that this mission couldn’t _possibly_ have gone worse.

 _Steve,_ on the other hand, could go on ice for _another_ seventy years and still wouldn’t have lived this down.

Nick Fury sat at the end of the table, head in his hands. “Why in the goddamned _hell_ did I green light this mission?”

Natasha stood propped against the wall with her arms crossed. “I blame myself more than you.”

“They _touched_ him.” Steve’s cheeks burned, but he stood his ground. Puffed his chest out, indignant.

“Of _course,_ they did, turtle dove.” Tony spun around in his chair, chewing on the tip of a pen. “We talked about this. We talked about what might happen if we went to hang out in a gay bar with a bunch of scummy man-whores. And, we settled on a signal. Did I _give_ you the signal?”

“No.” Steve crossed his arms, sputtering morosely. “But you – “

“Ah.” Tony held up a finger. “No. I did not. What does it mean when I don’t give you the signal, Steven?”

Steve grumbled. Muttered under his breath.

“Can’t hear you. Speak up, please.” He cupped a hand around his ear. “What does it mean?”

“That you didn’t need _help,”_ Steve relented, hating the words. He’d had broken _bones_ that hurt less.

“That I didn’t need help.” Tony stopped spinning, propping one elbow on the table, resting his head in his hand. “And as sweet as it is to know my Lancelot always has my back—”

“Barf,” Clint interjected. Natasha threw a pen at his head. “Ow!”

“—as sweet as that is. I _had_ it handled. I can fight my own battles, babe.”

“I _know_ that.” The words came out rough, animalistic. Tight with rage. So much so, it seemed to give everyone in the room pause. Steve turned to Fury and Natasha. “I owe the two of you an apology. My actions were unprofessional. I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Fury interjected, glowering with his one good eye. “Whether you and Stark are fucking or playing _footsy_ on your own time is none of my goddamned business, but on _my_ time? You’d better believe it is. You’re S.H.I.E.L.D. _consultants._ Not agents. That has been made _expressly_ clear to me.” Tony hummed, flipping him off from the sidelines. “I respect that. But when you sign on with a mission? You’d better be damned well sure it’s one you can complete. Do I make myself clear?”

Steve gritted his teeth. “Crystal.”

Fury raised an eyebrow.

Steve glared. He knew he was being difficult. It wasn’t like him to bear his fangs so openly.

But something in him had been awakened in that godforsaken bar. Something hard, and cold, that _roared_ when that son-of-a- _bitch_...

“He’s _mine,”_ Steve growled, guttural, desperate. He knew they wanted an explanation, and this _wasn’t_ that, but it was all he could manage.

Steve needed the affirmation. He wasn’t sure why. Couldn’t say if he was telling everyone, or no one. But he needed to hear himself say it. Needed to know he could have one thing – just _one –_ that nobody could take from him.

The thought bolstered his resolve. He stood up from the table. Eyes burning. Breath torn from his throat.

“ _Mine.”_ Steve met each of their gazes in turn. “You got me?”

Natasha seemed to understand. Though out of anyone he expected might, it would be the Black Widow, who’d had so little she could ever call her own. She gazed right back at Steve, unflinching. Her lips quirked.

Clint blinked, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t look at me, _I_ don’t want him.”

“Tony?” Natasha’s tone was coy. Always one to stoke a fire she knew was building. “Anything to say to Steve?”

The billionaire had yet to say anything, but his eyes were _black_. Pupils blown wide. “Tony wants to _climb_ Steve like a tree _,”_ he muttered, dark and wanting, drinking him in.

“Ew!” Clint clapped his hands over his ears. “I’m not listening!”

“Bye, bird brain.” Tony waved a hand toward the door, eyes locked onto Steve’s face.

Clint’s tone was incredulous. “…really? _Now?”_

“My tower.” His voice was heavy, his tone, rough with need. “Get out.”

If the others made any sort of verbal protest, Steve didn’t hear it. His breath stuttered, vision tunneling. World ruled entirely by his lover’s dark eyes and the beat of his heart. He whirled on Tony the instant the doors shut. Grabbed him by the waist and slammed him up against the wall.

Tony’s breath hitched. He looked up at Steve through a curtain of dark hair, pupils blown wide _._ Erection hard against his leg. He slotted his _own_ thigh between Tony’s legs, rubbed at him wantonly. Tony bucked against him, clutching at his shoulders, swallowing a whimper.

“ _Mine,”_ Steve groaned, tearing at their clothes. Tugging his shirt over his head before making quick work of the nice dress shirt Tony wore. Tearing the damned thing off with so little regard, it would have made his mother cry. Tony had lots of shirts, anyway.

This one had been _in_ the way.

“Yours,” Tony groaned, bearing his neck for Steve to suck marks into. Bruise it up, just the way they both liked it.

“Yeah?” Steve teased, Brooklyn accent creeping into his tone. It always did when he was worked up, or anxious. Tony loved it, and he’d do everything for Tony. _Anything_ for him.

“Yes,” Tony whimpered, on the edge of a moan. “ _God,_ yes.”

Steve grinned, giving him a teasing little nip as he worked at the button on Tony’s jeans, brushing up against the obvious bulge at the crotch. Just a glancing touch, that left him quivering with need.

Steve had blown this mission to kingdom come, but he’d be _damned_ if they weren’t coming by the time this night was over. 

_Mine._

Steve gave Tony a predatory grin, working his jeans down over his hips. “And don’t you forget it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to take a moment to say: Clint Barton was really the unsung hero of this tale. What a champion.


End file.
